


Nocturne Op. 9 No. 1

by loubuttons



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: F/M, Insomnia, Post Red John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:47:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21673192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loubuttons/pseuds/loubuttons
Summary: There’s an itch somewhere deep in her chest. It’s become familiar in the past decade—it means she wants to talk to Jane.
Relationships: Patrick Jane/Teresa Lisbon
Comments: 5
Kudos: 71





	Nocturne Op. 9 No. 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is one of Chopin's Nocturnes. 
> 
> This was based on the prompt: "I can't sleep, can I stay here?"

Before they joined the FBI, cases rarely pulled them so far from headquarters that they needed hotel rooms. Now, stationed in the expanse of Texas, cases are rarely located within a two-hour radius. Lisbon drops her suitcase just inside the room. She feels unmoored. For weeks, they’ve been on the road. The bed she’s facing is identical to the ones in every other room. 

Sighing, she decides against unpacking her bag. There’s no point; they’re moving on in the morning. Robotically, she goes through her nighttime routine. Normally it’s comforting. Tonight, it’s tedious. There’s an itch somewhere deep in her chest. It’s become familiar in the past decade—it means she wants to talk to Jane. Usually, it’s about their case; tonight any subject would do. When she’s at home, she satisfies the craving with his letters. They’re her own piece of paradise kept safe in a wooden box. But they’re at home, and she is not. 

Without letting herself consider the implications, she slips on her house shoes. Hoping she remembered his room number correctly, she knocks on 503. 

He smiles as he opens the door, “Lisbon.” 

“Hey,” She never learned how to stop being awkward around him. His mouth twitches, “Can I come in?” 

He steps back, sweeping his arm in a welcoming gesture. The door thuds closed behind her. Once it’s quiet and the rest of the world is shut out, she doesn’t know why she’s here. She’s suddenly exhausted. Calm settles around her; it’s as if she’s curled up on her couch, sipping on a mug of tea, clutching one of his sandy letters. 

“Is something wrong?” 

She wheels around, having momentarily forgotten Jane is behind her, “No. Everything’s...we’re all good.” 

He smiles again, nodding, “Good.” After a beat he continues, “I don’t mean to be inhospitable but was there something you needed? I assume you’re not here for the company.” 

His little comment is meant to disarm her; he knows that’s exactly why she’s here. And she knows that he knows that she knows. Being friends with Jane is like having a perpetual headache. 

But she’s never minded indulging him, so she answers, “I am, actually.” 

“Oh.” 

He directs her to the tiny kitchenette where she leans against the counter. Silently, he busies himself with making tea. It’s one of the only things he consistently travels with, she’s noticed. Looking around the room, she can’t spot where he stowed his bag. He still hasn’t changed out of his suit and likely hadn’t planned to. The only indication that he’s made himself comfortable is the removal of his shoes. He’s left in his socks. She smiles— _ her _ socks. He catches her smiling and grins back. 

She thought, foolishly, that time would dull the effect of his smiles. If anything, it’s made them more potent. Feeling like a pathetic girl with a crush, she ducks her head. He offers her a steaming mug without comment. They drink their tea in peaceful silence. As she swirls the dregs at the bottom of her cup, she reminds herself that she doesn’t actually like tea. She never drank it before Jane. There’s a lot of things she didn’t do before Jane. 

“Lisbon.” 

Although his voice is soft, she still jumps, “Yeah?”

“Are you sure there’s nothing...going on? Nothing you wanted to speak to me about?” 

He’s so much softer now, gentler than he used to be. She shakes her head, “No. I just wanted to see you, that’s all.” 

When he smiles this time, it’s small and fond. Those smiles are rare. She treasures each of them. Maybe they mean more now that his eyes aren’t so pain-filled. 

Before she knows what she’s saying, she confesses, “I can’t sleep. It’s all the traveling, I feel...”

“Untethered.” 

She nods. How he managed to live in random motels for the better part of a decade is a mystery to her. Softly, she asks, “Can I stay here? With you, I mean.” 

They’ve known each other long enough to understand—she isn’t hitting on him. Still, surprise flickers across his face before he can control it. She regrets ever asking but knows she can’t take it back. 

“Of course.” He pretends to be unfazed. “Whatever you need.” 

Despite her protests, she takes the bed and he curls up in a deceptively cushioned chair. Having rested in them before, she knows that the thing is all wood and frame; the cushions are just for looks. He doesn’t complain but probably won’t sleep either. That’s alright, she comforts herself as she drifts off, she’ll cover for him when he naps tomorrow. 

From across the room, he whispers, “Goodnight, Lisbon.” 

She smiles, “Goodnight, Jane.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think with comments and/or kudos. 
> 
> If you want to read my prompts when they're written or request one yourself, head over to my tumblr (@loubuttons).


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